


dark side of the moon

by nayt0reprince



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, Hospitals, Moonboy Zine 2017, Past Abuse, Zine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-06
Updated: 2017-09-06
Packaged: 2018-12-24 17:44:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12017841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nayt0reprince/pseuds/nayt0reprince
Summary: two words, in any variation: "i'm sorry," "my bad," "forgive me" - all failing to bear the weight of his sins he cannot escape from.(in which a seemingly simple apology took way, way too long for mishima to deliver.)





	dark side of the moon

**Author's Note:**

> good evening, pals! this fic is from the zine that a group of us participated in, known as the moonboy zine, which focused on our fave #1 phan-boy, mishima! a good chap he be, indeed! kinda. anyways please make sure to check it out on twitter @MoonBoyZine to see all the amazing works people have done! anyways, please enjoy and lemme know what you think!

The flowers wilted along the way from midsummer’s brutal, unrelenting heat; their petals sagged and drooped, some falling off and becoming crushed beneath the heels of Tokyo’s many inhabitants against sidewalks and subway floors. He considered tossing the bouquet after arriving to the daunting, looming hospital, and the trash can near the front entrance proved tempting. His knuckles whitened around the rainbow-colored wrapping paper. No. No, he would not toss out a gift just because it looked worse for wear, nor would he abandon his spontaneous escapade in favor of ignoring the elephant in his mind that no fiber of his being wanted to address. 

No, he determined, today would be the day he apologized. He would be brave, just like the very Phantom Thieves he always aspired to be like.

Yet he remained paralyzed. He stood on the sidewalk, imagining himself walking across the little street for vehicles to go to the visitor parking lot, and strutting through those sliding doors as if it were as easy as breathing. His cement-laden feet, however, remained stuck to the ground. Sweat dribbled down the back of his neck, and he swatted at his head as though a fly buzzed around him. He could _do_ this. This was getting _ridiculous._ The beginnings of a sunburn reddened his otherwise pale skin as he continued to stand still, his rehearsed apologies ripped to shreds alongside his courage by his detrimental, crippling indecision. Several people walked by him, passing confused glances in his direction, before whispering to one another. He must have looked like an apologetic lover, or some desperate ex, hoping to get back together with his former partner by taking advantage of an accident.

_C’mon,_ he berated himself, _c’mon, move your stupid feet, we don’t have all day._ Step. Like trudging through muddy rice fields, his legs sludged forward, shoes scuffing against the pavement. _Just a few more meters, and there will be air conditioning._ Step. As though shackled to the metaphorical chains bearing the weight of his regrets, he plodded through the automatic doors. The bright, fluorescent lights were somehow softer than the harsh rays of the sun, even when accompanied by white walls. He was right; the air conditioner almost chilled him to the bone the moment he stepped into the lobby.

The woman behind the front desk, sporting flower-patterned glasses and a chipper smile, bowed politely at his approach. She tilted her head. “Good afternoon! How may I assist you today?” She glanced at the flowers, smile faltering at their presentation. “Visiting someone?”

“Um,” he managed, then swallowed hard, trying to get his vocal cords to work properly. “I’m looking for Suzui Shiho’s room.”

The woman - her name tag read Isahara - nodded, a hint of sadness furrowing her brow as she looked towards one of the hallways. “From Shujin Academy, yes? I’ve heard the story - absolutely terrible.” She glanced him over. “You’re from there, too, I take it? You look about the same age. It’s unusual for her to get visitors from there anymore, aside from one girl and her friend, but I’m certain she’d be glad to have company. Please hold on one moment, she might still be in physical therapy. Your name, please?”

“Mishima,” he answered, wetting his cracked lips. “Mishima Yuuki.”

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other as Ms. Isahara tapped a few buttons on her phone, speaking softly into the transmitter. Generic landscape paintings filled the otherwise empty walls, with chairs, plants, and various books fleshing out the remaining space. He couldn’t imagine having to work in the same bland room every day, greeting unhappy people coming here for equally unhappy reasons. It would probably drive him insane. Maybe Ms. Isahara already _had_ gone insane, given how she could still smile. She hung up the phone and nodded.

“You’re in luck. She’s recovering from a session in her room, so she may be a little winded.” She pointed an elongated nail towards the door on the left. “Down that hall, room one-eighteen. Please make sure to change your shoes before going. Lucky you, no stairs!” She laughed, and waved him on his way. He managed a weak laugh in response before heading towards the hall. It’s no wonder they didn’t want Suzui on a higher floor, given the circumstances.

He winced.

Everything seemed too quiet as he looked for Room 118. Nurses bowed their heads as he walked by, nerves buzzing beneath his skin. He almost wished he got lost so that he would wander aimlessly for hours until visiting hours ended, but he found his destination much too easily. Suzui’s name, written in flowery kanji, stood out beneath the room’s faux-gold plaque. The door was left ajar, and a slight, gentle breeze ruffled the bouquet and his bangs. Suzui must’ve had the window open. He paused. Would she even want to see him? Probably not. Definitely not. Who would, after _that?_ Sure, he wasn’t the reason _why_ she did it, but still. His shoulders slumped, as they would whenever Kamoshida gave him a toothy grin and said, _“Bring pretty little Suzui to my office, would ya?”_ He didn’t do a single thing to stop him. He just did as he was told, no matter how hurt she got.

He gritted his teeth. The door slid open with a shuddering slam, almost breaking off one of his fingernails in the process. Enough was enough. He was here to do what Kamoshida wouldn’t.

The sheer, light blue curtains billowed outward from the wind, and Suzui sat in her bed, tapping a pen against her chin. Paperwork sat in her lap. New textbooks piled up on the small desk beside her with cards from all over. She looked - well, she looked better. Healthier. No bruises. No downcast eyes, just thoughtful. She seemed to be eating properly, too. A wave of relief nearly caused his legs to buckle and give out on him, months upon months of anxiety about her condition released at long last. She was _okay._ Of course, he knew that she would be, deep down, but it was the first time confirming it with his own eyes. She was _fine._ And more importantly, _safe._

He sucked in a sharp breath, then, after clearing his throat, managed a, “Hello.”

She looked up, eyebrows raised in surprise, mouth agape. “Oh. I thought I heard the door open. Sorry, I was lost in my thoughts.” She stared at him for a few moments, as if deciphering whether or not she saw was reality, before putting her paperwork aside. “You’re,” she said, bringing a hand up to her lips, “you are Mishima, aren’t you? From volleyball?”

“Yeah. Yes. I,” he rubbed his hand along the back of his neck, fumbling for words, before jutting his arm out almost mechanically with the flowers. “I, uh, brought these for you. Um. Long time no see.”

Suzui glanced at the bouquet, blinked, and then - Mishima couldn’t believe it - giggled. Actual laughter, not the forced crap she used to perform every time Kamoshida gave her a _look._ “Thank you,” she said, then reached over for one of the empty vases. “I’ll take good care of them. You didn’t have to.”

“I know.” No, he didn’t, but - well, whatever. He looked away. “How are you?”

“I’m okay.” She toyed with a few loose strands of her hair. “Filling out school transfer paperwork is tiring, though. Not as tiring as physical therapy, but I’m getting better at it much faster than everyone thought I would.” She shook her head. “No - faster than _I_ thought I would, thanks to my best friend rooting for me. I feel like I can do my best because of her, you know?” Her small laugh trailed off. “Oh, sorry. I’m rambling again - I didn’t mean to bore you with my life-story of these past few months. It’s pretty much all the same.”

“No!” Mishima waved his hands in front of him. She sat up straighter, surprised at his outburst, so he lowered his voice. “No, I’m - I’m glad to hear it. Really. Seriously, I mean it, it’s - it’s good to know. I’m just…”

His words slowed to a crawl, dying in his throat as he sputtered. She watched him, brown eyes laced with concern, while his mind, like a slinking, nefarious troublemaker, betrayed him by rehashing of too many locked-away memories unleashed upon him all at once--

(April. Gray skies. A distinct chill in the classroom, not quite warm enough to be comfortable. A boring lecture. An aching cheek and sore muscles. Sudden whispers, an outburst. A chair falling by his side, a running start much too late.

Paramedics. Legs bent the wrong way. Indistinct chatter. Sirens. Panic, despair, anguish, hopelessness, _Why, No, I’m next, It’s all my fault, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m-_ -)

“Mishima?”

“I’m _sorry,”_ he choked out, voice shattering into a million pieces as a tightly-wound bundle of tucked-away feelings snapped at its weakest link. He lowered his head, nails digging into his palms. “I’m so _sorry,_ Suzui.”

Crap. Crap, this isn’t going as he planned at all. He was supposed to be dignified, brimming with confidence as he delivered his apology, or _something._ Anything but _this_ , anything but being a sniveling _mess_ in her hospital room when _she_ was the one who suffered. But of course it would be like this. Of course he would make it about _himself._ Isn’t that what he’s done for the past several months? The Phan-Site, his friendships, everything. A desperation to become a _something_ out of _nothing._

He hadn’t learned a single thing, after all. Not after all the undeserved patience Kurusu gave him. God _damn_ it.

“Mishima,” Suzui said, and, dammit, why was he still standing there, why couldn’t he just leave like she probably wanted him to? God, he was so annoying, what the hell was he thinking - “Mishima,” she said again, a little louder to get his attention. “Look at me.”

He shook his head. He couldn’t. He couldn’t look at her. Everything was ruined now. 

“Please. For me.”

He sniffed, his raw throat swallowing painfully to steel himself, before doing as she asked. Her eyes remained soft. Kind. She gestured to the empty chair beside the bed. 

“Sit down?”

His joints cracked as he forced himself to move through the thick haze that surrounded his field of vision, sitting in the chair offered. Suzui folded her hands into her lap, then wiggled her toes under the ugly blanket. 

“I can still move my toes.”

Mishima rubbed at his eyes with his sleeves before watching the big toe move up and down. 

“They still move, like these stubborn knees and ankles. Hurts still, but I can do it, after many months of therapy.” She reached over and picked up her paperwork. “I can still fill out boring forms and feel anxious about changing schools and be upset about not going to the same place as Ann. I can eat gross hospital food that they tell me is good for you, deal with needles, and still look out this window day after day, knowing I’m going to be out of here by September and starting a new semester. Starting over, digging myself out of a hole that seemed so pitch-black that I believed completely that there was no light. But here I am anyways.”

“Suzui,” he croaked, and she shook her head.

“Don’t apologize. Not again. I’ve already heard it from so many people. But you look like you’ve been carrying somebody else’s responsibility for a long time now. Can you stop that? Just, put it down, okay? You aren’t going to get my forgiveness,” she reached out, paused, and then placed her palm upon his shoulder, “because you don’t _need_ it. You have _nothing_ to be sorry for - not when you were in that same hole _he_ put us in, making you do what he told you to. I could never hate you for his actions. No way.”

It took a moment for her words to digest, and then, without warning, his body quaked as an ugly sob wracked his frame. She always was too nice. He still remembered her leaving an extra water bottle in his shoe locker. How she checked up on him, despite that, back then, he didn’t quite know her name yet. How she sneakily handed him snacks during what few breaks practice had. The guilt of never going to see her after _that day_ ate at him, and he found distractions in the Phan-Site, or his meetings with the very leader of the Phantom Thieves, or - pathetically enough - in watching anime and playing video games until one in the morning.

“Hey,” she said, gently shaking him. “You in there?”

“I’m,” he started. _Sorry,_ he thought. He exhaled slowly, tension draining bit by bit, the chills on his skin melting beneath the warmth of her hand. “Yeah,” he said instead. “Yeah, I’m here.”

“Feeling better?”

He nodded. “I - yeah, a little. I’m sor - uh. I didn’t mean to bring all this up again.”

“It’s okay. It seems like you really needed it, like I did back then.” She withdrew her hand, and it felt as though she took his frayed bundle of worries and self-hatred with it, tucking it someplace safe. She stared at him for a moment before shuffling through her paperwork. “Want to know how I do it now, instead of what I did back then? Get through _it,_ I mean. I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately.”

He nodded again. 

“My therapist taught me this: we have tomorrows, you and me, with people we really care about. They fight for our right to be here every day, and our right to be _happy._ Ann fights for me every single day, giving me a _reason_ to keep going. My family and friends, too. That _man_ does not. He can’t touch what I have anymore. He can’t take away what I gained from crawling out of the hole he made. Not from me, and not from _you,_ either. And it’s our responsibility to fight for it, too, _and_ for our friends. We might not be able to change the world or anything, but we can start doing _good_ by changing _ourselves._ We don’t have to be stuck in _his_ world anymore. _Our_ perceptions, _not_ his desires, shape our world.” She stopped, and then bit her bottom lip. “Does that make sense? I feel like I’m going on and on about something really, _really_ pretentious.”

Mishima thought about it for a moment. People fighting for him, and him fighting for them, huh? His mind wandered to Kurusu first, with his aloof expression and knowing eyes burning with the need behind those faux-glasses to do _something_ about the corrupt and rotting world. His parents, who both cried and apologized profusely after Kamoshida’s arrest, who made up for it by buying him crepes at least once a week (it was the thought that counts). The website, where many requests stacked on top of one another as people hoped for help that would someday come. The Phantom Thieves, who put their lives on the line to make a difference for someone like Mishima, who gave him a _chance_ again.

“Yeah,” he said at last, and a smile reached his lips, “it makes perfect sense, Suzui. It’s not that pretentious at all.” She gave him a look. He managed a sheepish grin. “Really, I mean it.”

“Oh, good.” She laughed and waved her hand. “Ann tells me that sometimes I just keep talking and nothing but nonsense comes out. At least what I say makes more sense than literally any of her paintings. Did you ever have art class with her? Terrible, right? That’s how we became friends, you know. She painted the ugliest bird-thing I’ve ever seen, and I kind of blurted out how bad it was. I never saw someone laugh so hard in my life. The teacher even made her step outside the classroom until she calmed down. Took about fifteen minutes - I counted.”

A distinct fondness settled over her features. Something fuzzy and warm ached in Mishima’s chest. “If I see her in art class, I’ll make sure to send you a picture of her latest creations.”

“Oh, _please_ do. She keeps hiding them from me because she’s worried I’ll use it as blackmail to get her to sneak me in some ice cream. I’ve been craving chocolate, you know? It’s the worst. Hey, do you think you can bring me some next time? Make sure Isahara doesn’t see it, or else she’ll take it away and eat it herself.”

“Suzui?”

She blinked. “Yes?”

“Thank you.” Ah. Those were the words, he realized, he should have said all along. He straightened his back and wiped his sweating palms on his pant legs. “For listening to me.”

“Oh, you don’t have to thank me.” She waved her hand dismissively. “It’s what anyone else would do. Everyone’s listened to me so much, so it’s only natural to repay the favor.”

“That’s not true. I didn’t repay _any_ favors, not for a long time. But you and my other good friend are helping me realize something. Something that I need to do.”

“Yeah? Something cool, I hope.”

He smiled. His eyes still hurt, and his clothes felt sticky from all the warm air Suzui let in from the window, but he felt _great,_ as though his muse underwent an awakening. As though he, too, could make a difference in such a world where those precious opportunities were as sparse as seeing elephants stand on two feet while wielding swords. “Definitely. Hey, have you been keeping up with the news at all? Ever heard of the Phantom Thieves?”

*

Can’t spell cursor without curse, Mishima realized as he stared at the blank page on his desktop for nearly four hours, a daunting “Title:” awaiting (or taunting, he couldn’t tell) for his next input. After securing a promise with Suzui to bring her a carton of chocolate ice cream next time ( _next time_ , she actually wanted to see him _again,_ and that thought alone made him both anxious and grateful), he ran home, a distinct urgency begging him to get to a keyboard as soon as humanly possible. 

(“Phantom Thieves,” she replied, tilting her head to one side. “I feel like I have, but I don’t know much about them. Why do you ask?”)

He rubbed at his eyes, sighed, and chewed at his bottom lip. A title was as important as a name, and the Phantom Thieves deserved the best. Something catchy, something eye-grabbing, something that would steal anyone’s attention as they passed by a bookstore without much thought. He picked up his energy drink, guzzled it down, and resumed glaring at his computer screen, all but begging for the universe to give him something, _anything,_ that would live up to his idols’ legacy. Something to make them _shine_ , after months of hiding behind the dark side of the moon and working magic in the shadows.

(“Well,” he replied, rubbing the back of his neck, “they’re these super-cool high schoolers who came out of nowhere and began trying to fix what the adults won’t. They’re the reason Kamoshida confessed and everything. Don’t tell anyone, but I made them this really cool fan-site - you should check it out if you have time, I spent _hours_ working on it - and everyone’s been gushing lately about how awesome they are, trying to fix society and all that. It’s really inspiring, you know? There’s so much more to what they do, too.”

“Is there?” She leaned forward, clearly interested. “How much more?”)

Ah. His music player changed songs, the beat catchy and making his fingertips dance on the keyboard, a title - at long last - performing its grand entrance and beginning the book’s initiation. It might have been cheesy to use song lyrics, of all things, as stand-in titles, but it would have to do. His mind wasn’t exactly clogging along efficiently as 2 AM, with its temptation to sleep, snuck up on him. This was it. This would be how he, like the Phantom Thieves did for him and Suzui, would make a difference in the world, somehow. He wondered, briefly, what Kurusu would think. Maybe he’ll run the idea by him the next time they met.

(“So much more,” he answered, grin widening. “Enough to fill a book.” He paused, and then snapped his fingers. “Wait, that’s it. That’s it! Suzui, would you read it? A book about the Phantom Thieves?”)

He pressed Control+S. He’d work more on it tomorrow, but even a future best-seller needed a slow, steady start. Just like how he got his courage. Just like how Suzui began to walk again.

(“Yes,” she said, nodding with a smile. “I’d love to read it, Mishima.”

“Consider it done, then. Maybe. Writing’s hard, but for the Phantom Thieves, I’d do anything.” He laughed sheepishly. “Except maybe giving up my website. Hehe.”

“Make sure to autograph your first copy for me so I can brag to Ann about how one of my friends became a famous author, yeah?” She winked.

Friends. She call him a _friend._ His chest swelled with pride.)

_> Save document as?:_

(“Definitely, Suzui. It’s the least I can do.”)

_> JapanNeverSawItComing:HowThePThievesMovedTooFastForSociety’sEyes.docx_

_> Save completed._


End file.
